


with you

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s14e10 Nihilism, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 14 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: For the first few hours, Michael is all Dean hears.





	with you

For the first few hours, Michael is all Dean hears.

A gnawing ache in his brain, nails scratching at the walls of his temple. Pinpricks radiating through his skull, down his spinal cord. Taunts and curses thrown at him in combinations he only ever heard from his father, except now, in his own voice. His eyes hurt—and all he can do is listen, and wait for it to be over.

Tinnitus settles in shortly after the worst of Michael’s anger dies. For once, Dean appreciates the ringing, but not with the headache that accompanies it, pounding behind his eyes, ingrained into his forehead. Even his tears sear his face, warm like blood but clear as water. Looking in the mirror, Dean knows the image he makes, broken and distraught, hands trembling around the lip of the sink.

Uncontrollably, he shakes, until the shock wears off and he can breathe again, or at least try. Only then, accustomed to the weight and feel of his body, can he sit at the edge of his bed, mattress sinking, blankets soft, surrounding him. Falling back, he stares at the ceiling with his hands clasped over his stomach, still shivering minutely. Michael is still fuming, but for now, he’s pacing, quiet. This, Dean can handle—as long as the door holds, then maybe, just maybe, he can figure out a plan of action. Dig into the books, research how to expel archangels without destroying himself in the process.

Now, more than ever, Dean doesn’t want to die.

Sleep doesn’t come, not like he wants it to. Something feels off in his head while he dozes, consciousness slipping but always out of reach, fingers grasping at the remains. In a drawer, the notebook sits, black and bound in leather; the contents haunt him, a story he doesn’t want to think about, barely even wants to enact. The one way to save his life, and it’s…

That won’t happen—he won’t let it.

Somewhere around four o’clock, Dean finally shuts off the nightstand lamp and pulls the covers over his head, blocking out every trace of light he can find. Not even that works to calm his nerves, still firing, oversensitive. Maybe this is a fever, he thinks, sucking in a breath before exhaling through his nose. Or, maybe Michael is already gnawing away at him from the inside, breaking him down until he submits, or lapses. Or forgets.

Footsteps pad down the hallway, socked and quiet. Initially, Dean figures one of the other hunters is awake, or sleepwalking, until the knob turns. Heart in his throat, he holds his breath while the door opens, shuts. _Dream, just a dream_ , he tells himself, as the presence wanders closer, fabric rustling in its wake. A hand settles atop his head, over the blankets, and even there, Dean recognizes it, recognizes him.

“I know you’re awake,” Castiel says, whisper-soft above the hum of the heating system. The mattress dips ever so slightly, followed by more fabric. Shoes come off with a quiet thud, followed by a coat. Maybe the jacket too, if Dean is counting. Sheets lift; under the cover of darkness, Castiel slips in behind him, arm around his waist, chest to back. Dean shivers, the temperature change drastic. Has Castiel always been this warm? “Should I ask how you are?”

“Don’t need to,” Dean huffs, idly wiping his face. Tears wet his cheeks, like they never stopped flowing in the first place. “Miserable. Someone jammed an icepick in my eye.”

Over the years, Dean has grown used to the feel of Castiel’s fingers, from the way they cradle his wrists to the gentle sweep through his hair, most of the time when they’re alone, or no one’s looking. Those same fingers cover his eyes, and Dean has a half-second to feel ashamed before the pain behind his temple abates, replaced by a near-frigid chill. Yet, Castiel doesn’t pull away, and instead simply allows Dean to weep, silent and choked.

“You can still hear him,” Castiel says after a while, forehead pressed to Dean’s nape, legs tangled. Dean nods, clears his throat; he doesn't trust his voice, not yet, anyway. “But that’s not what you’re upset about.”

Shaking his head, Dean curls into himself, one arm around his stomach, the other reaching aimlessly for the edge of the mattress. “Lot of things,” he says, not entirely a lie. He can’t tell him about the notebook—not yet, anyway, not until he makes sense of it. “Just really freaked out.”

Castiel nods, his cheek warm; his hand relents, only to cover one of Dean’s own, fingertips twining. The intimacy of it terrifies him, tears spilling over, wetting the sheets. “If you need to talk,” Castiel says, little more than a murmur, “I’m here.”

“Whatever he said back there,” Dean blurts before he can stop himself, immediately regretting ever opening his mouth. Somehow, this hurts more than Castiel’s touch, more than Michael slamming his full weight, wings and all, into the door. “Whatever he said, he’s lying. You’re not here because I feel like I’m obligated, or any of that shit. You’re not a—”

“I know,” Castiel shushes him, but Dean plows on, unhindered, probably too loud.

“You’re not a burden, none of it. Just… you know it ain’t.”

Again, Castiel nuzzles closer, this time taking Dean’s hand in full. All Dean can do is cling to him, face pressed into the damp sheets, somehow even more ashamed. “Dean,” Castiel says, a lifeline. “Dean, I know. He’s trying to get into your head, all of ours, to turn us against each other. He thrives on chaos, and he’ll do everything in his power to watch us bleed. But that doesn't mean we have to.” He pauses and rolls Dean onto his back, looming over him enough to lift the sheets, allowing a sliver of red light from the atomic clock in.

Someone walks past; Castiel lowers his voice. “Not because of him. This life, this miserable, tormented stretch of existence we share,” nimbly, he takes Dean’s hand and folds each of his fingers into a fist, one by one, “you have the power to destroy him.”

“We do,” Dean says, choked. In the glow, he watches Castiel nod. “Just hard to believe. Especially with the way he’s… screaming.” He pauses to inhale, breath caught in his throat. “I just want him to shut up, please. _Please_.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel lies and hides a kiss against his temple. So sweet, Dean almost believes him. “Just breathe. Breathe with me.”

Dean can’t—as much as he wants to, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to come up for air again, to fill with lungs with anything other than smoke and ash, and the weight of his own regret. Even in control, he’s still drowning—and this time, he doesn’t know if he’ll survive.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hi! I hope you were as jazzed for last night's episode was I was! I LOVE HIM. I should... go back to my other fics now?
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
